


Sinner, Saint

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time Topping, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Valentine's Day, Switching, Top John, Topping from the Bottom, Valentine's Day, meaningless commercial holiday equals smut, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hates cinnamon hearts, and he hates Valentine's Day, but he certainly knows how to work the traditions of a meaningless commercial holiday to his advantage.</p><p>Part 10 of "Off-Kilter"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinner, Saint

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I promised you some switch!lock? Here it is (oh, top!John, be mine!). Thanks to the Antidiogenes club for the encouragement.

It’s four days after Valentine’s Day before they notice it’s been and gone.

“Do you mind, Sherlock?” John asks, a little diffidently. He doesn’t really care for the holiday himself, but ever since Katie James, his university girlfriend, went up one side of him and down the other for bringing her petrol-station roses on the fifteenth, he’s always felt a little uncertain about it. 

“Mind what?” Sherlock is looking intently at something in an Erlenmeyer flask. John doesn’t really want to know what it is, because it’s lumpy. 

“Valentine’s Day.”

“I do, actually, mind Valentine’s Day. It’s a shockingly vulgar holiday, and my father always insists on sending me cinnamon hearts, which I loathe.”

“Your father sent you cinnamon hearts?” John is immensely diverted by this, “Where are they?”

“I binned them. As aforementioned, I loathe cinnamon hearts. Although,” Sherlock blinks reflectively, “I could have used them, I suppose, to bribe the receptionist for our case the other day.”

“More to the point, you could have given them to me. I love cinnamon hearts.”

John wishes he could take a picture of the face Sherlock makes when he says this. It’s as if he’s confessed to being a young-earth creationist, or liking Anderson.

“For the sake of our relationship, I will pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Well, that’s why I was asking you.”

“Asking me what? Not about cinnamon hearts?”

At this point, John knows he’s in the clear, but he presses on. Katie James had been, after all, a very articulate young woman.

“Valentine’s Day. Do you mind that we didn’t do anything for Valentine’s Day?”

“John,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John braces himself for the oh-I-am-so-different-from-you-mere-mortals-and-your-social-conventions speech.

“Valentine’s Day is an occasion fabricated by businesses to ensure that people spend money on…Oooooh.” Sherlock stops.

John has to drag his flagging attention back to the conversation, as he’d already disappeared into a pleasant daydream about Sherlock in tight red pants with little hearts on.

“What?” He’s back, and he’s realized he doesn’t really like the sound of that “Oooooh”, either. It’s the sound of Sherlock’s brain ticking over at double speed, and, frankly, regular speed is bad enough.

“Well, Valentine’s Day is a day for couples to give each other gifts, is it not?”

“It is.” God, John hates this explanatory mode.

“And I did do the washing-up three days running, did I not?”

“You did.” Uh-oh.

“So if we count that as my gift…”

“Sherlock, you used all our dishes to hold  liquefied pig organs .”

“I did do the washing-up three days running, did I not?”

“Well, yes, but it doesn’t bloody count, does it, because…”

“So I would like you to fuck me.”

John stops talking, his mouth a round ‘O’, because if there’s anything he’s expected, this isn’t it. 

“Is it so distasteful, John? I would have thought you would be amenable. You do love the dominant position, and I assure you that I’ll be able to take you all, thick as you are.”

“Sherlock!” John stops him, because ‘distasteful’ is really not the word that’s floating through his head right now. 

“I want to. I definitely want to. I just thought you… you…”

“Did not switch?”

John’s eyebrow flies up. 

“Switch. Surely, John, you of all people should know me better than to assume I would adhere to any strict category in any facet of my life.” He pauses, “Well, unless it were the category of people hating cinnamon hearts, or people who believe in the indispensable nature of the Oxford comma.”

“Oh. Well, then. Er, of course. I mean, when did you want to do this?”

“Not much on today, so fifteen minutes? This mixture can keep,” Sherlock gestures to the flask, “but I need a shower.” 

John nearly chokes. 

“Sherlock, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“I sincerely hope not, John.”

Sherlock bends down, lowering himself into John’s space, and kisses him, a wet, slick, filthy kiss that draws a rush of blood to John’s lips and groin. Then he vanishes. Once his head clears John notes, thankfully, that the flask is on the table rather than in the bathroom with Sherlock. 

With that large, walking distraction out of the room, John has time to consider. He’s been very gentle ever since Sherlock’s jealous episode, letting him take the lead, but it sounds like things are changing. Today, he’s going to take that man apart. 

He begins, as he does many things, by being completely unassuming. Sherlock comes out of the bathroom looking like a fallen angel, his hair in damp curls and the towel draped precariously around his hips. He looks over at John expectantly, turning his body sideways slightly so that the line of his obliques is more visible. 

“Just a minute, Sherlock; I’ll be right there.” He knows it drives Sherlock mad to be kept waiting, just for a minute. Any longer and Sherlock gets frustrated, but sixty-five or so seconds of being ignored is about right. Also, John likes to watch Sherlock’s courtship dance: first he’ll reach up and ruffle his hair. The next step will be casually letting the towel drop; after that, he’ll say something in a very low, very sexy voice. 

John grins to himself. Sherlock thinks that’s what gets him. It’s not.

The towel slips as Sherlock runs his hands through is hair and pretends to be looking at the flask again. John watches, admiring the top curve of Sherlock’s buttock that appears. It’s impossibly lush compared to the sleek leanness of the rest of his body, and John’s fingers twitch. He’ll have his hands all over it momentarily, but the craving is  right now.  He sits back and tastes it, letting the anticipation slide over his body. 

“This hypothalamus is not dissolving the way I thought it would.” 

There’s the voice. It’s almost harder to resist than the obliques, despite the gruesome subject matter.

“No?” John keeps his tone mild. 

“John…” Sherlock turns towards him.

“Come here.” John puts his book to one side and looks at Sherlock, waiting.

Sherlock drops his towel with a flourish and obeys, draping himself over John. He’s large and warm and he smells like his cologne ( Terre d’Hermes ; John looked it up, just for fun one day, and was utterly scandalized at how much it cost). John runs his hand up Sherlock’s back, finding the spot at the base of his neck that always makes him shiver and caressing it firmly. 

“Looking for submission already?”

“If this made you submissive after just a few seconds, Sherlock, you’d find me touching you there an awful lot more frequently.” 

“The pleasure there parallels the mating bite reflex in other animals, you know. Ever seen lions mate?”

John has, but he’s less than interested in any animal other than Sherlock right now. He places his hand on Sherlock’s chest, palm flat, fingers spread, and feels the softness of Sherlock’s skin and the rise and fall of his breath. Then, once Sherlock has stilled, he bends to kiss him. Sherlock’s mouth falls open quickly, but John takes his time, covering Sherlock’s delicious lower lip with small, swift kisses. When he places his whole mouth over Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s hand comes up to hold his head, and their tongues meet in luxurious slick softness. 

John pushes one thumb over Sherlock’s nipple and then drags his hand over Sherlock’s ribcage to rest on the obliques. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s near-erection under his wrist, and he trails his fingers down, close but not close enough, and then moves his hand away, along the length of Sherlock’s thigh to the back of his knee. He pulls him in close, kissing more deeply. Sherlock hums contentedly into his mouth, and John settles him firmly into his lap, enjoying the pressure of Sherlock’s body against his growing erection.

They kiss, by unspoken agreement, until they can’t take it anymore. Their mouths are hot and urgent and both are painfully hard. John breaks the kiss, reluctantly, and looks at Sherlock, hair half dried and mad now, and eyes wide with desire. 

“Bedroom?”

“Yes.”

When Sherlock’s too aroused to be a smartarse, it’s a good sign, and John grins to himself as he follows Sherlock into the bedroom. John waits, watching Sherlock take possession of the bed. Once he’s comfortable, sprawling over three-quarters of the available space, John begins to undress.

He knows Sherlock likes it, watching him undress slowly, and the benefits of this arousal have come to outweigh the slight embarrassment John feels at showing himself in this way.

He shrugs out of his cardigan and untucks his shirt, then unbuttons it. He reaches down to pull off his socks, then, perhaps a little theatrically, because Sherlock is watching this portion of the show fairly intently, puts his hand on his belt and waits. He takes a moment to appreciate Sherlock laid out on the bed. Then a wicked idea strikes him.

“Should I get the kilt?”

“What? John, have you no sense of proportion? Take off your trousers and stop drawing this out unnecessarily.”

“That’s a yes, then?” John goes to the closet. It’s right there, on his side, of course, because heaven forbid non-standard items clutter up Sherlock’s suit collection. The smoothness of the wool under his fingers is erotic simply by association. 

When he turns around, Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Take. Your. Trousers. Off.” 

“So impatient.” John tosses the kilt on the bed and steps between Sherlock’s thighs, carefully aligning his clothed cock to Sherlock’s naked one. He bends slightly to kiss Sherlock again, pressing against him so that those long questing fingers can’t quite reach his flies. Frustrated, Sherlock slides his hands around John’s waist and pulls him closer, grinding against him and making a soft, needy noise against his lips. John runs his hands up Sherlock’s thighs and around, trailing his fingers across the top of his arse, then, after one last bite at that lower lip, pushes Sherlock back on the bed. When Sherlock is on his back, face flushed, thighs open, and cock straining, John finally unzips his trousers and takes them off. Then, more slowly, his pants, taking the time, as he pushes them down, to take his own erection into his hand and stroke it once, twice. Sherlock watches intently. 

“Can I do that?” His voice has a hitch in it. 

“Maybe later.” John bends forward and licks, then bites, Sherlock’s inner thigh. Sherlock squeaks when his teeth make contact, but it doesn’t hurt enough for him to draw away as John repeats it on the other side. When John stops and lifts himself up over Sherlock’s body, Sherlock arches up towards him, but John moves away, tormenting him, then bends in for a deep, dirty kiss. As he does, he lowers his cock against Sherlock’s and brushes once, twice. He’d do it a third time, but Sherlock’s body is tense; he won’t make it much longer. Instead, he shifts to the side, spreads Sherlock’s legs and runs his hand down behind his balls. Sherlock opens to his touch, and John takes advantage of that to trail his hands along between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, savouring the softness of the skin. Sherlock wriggles underneath him, not begging but insistent, and John presses his thumb to Sherlock’s hole; then, responding to the breathy moans coming from the pillow, he bends and takes Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. 

When his mouth closes around the tip, slick and salty, all the air seems to leave Sherlock’s body in a moan. John runs his tongue around the head, pushing the foreskin back, then sucks, gently and insistently. Sherlock hasn’t breathed in, yet; he’s just hanging there, frozen with pleasure. John holds on a little longer than he would have just to watch the angles of Sherlock’s face, the frenzy of his hair against the pillow.

The moment he breaks suction, Sherlock moves again, convulsively.

“Don’t stop!”

“Do you want me or do you not?”

The only reply is a frustrated growl. John moves up the bed again and kisses Sherlock’s lower lip, then reaches into the drawer for lube. He sits back on his heels and flips the cap open. 

“Hurry up!”

“There’s no rush. This is supposed to be romantic, remember?”

“Romance! Bloody hell, John!” Sherlock starts to sit up.

John flips the cap closed again. 

“No. No, fine, romance is fine.” Sherlock flops back on the bed so fast it’s almost comical. 

“So glad you’ve come to your senses.” He opens the bottle, drizzles the cool liquid on his hand. Then, starting at the head of Sherlock’s cock, he trails one finger down the shaft, across his testicles, down past the sensitive spot behind them to his arsehole. He works one finger in, teasing back and forth; Sherlock’s hips are already rocking gently by the time he finishes. The second finger is just as quick, and he only has to brush the prostate for Sherlock to arch up, tense. There is no more arguing, now.

John has been holding himself in check and doing it well, but Sherlock’s right on the edge, and as he reaches down to put lube on his own cock, he realizes just how close he is himself. 

“Ready?” He knows the answer, but he wants to hear Sherlock’s voice.

“Please, John.” It’s barely audible, but it rumbles through John’s body. He puts his hands either side of Sherlock’s chest, bends to kiss him, and, as he does, he pushes his cock just inside. 

Sherlock is tight, so tight, and hot. He drops his forehead, willing himself to stay in control. He pushes in further, all the way, and Sherlock exhales, hard.

“All right?” His own voice is nearly lost now, and Sherlock can only nod and arch forward to kiss him.

It seems almost sinful to pull out again, but he does. The first few thrusts are jerky, rough. John tries, he really does, to establish a rhythm, but it’s Sherlock who takes hold of his hips and guides them into a smoother pattern of movement. The pleasure rises so fast that John’s only dimly aware that Sherlock has taken his own cock in his hand, but the whisper of movement between their bellies is what lights the fuse of his orgasm, and it’s all he can do to hold on while it hits him. Sherlock comes while John’s still convulsing, with his usual quiet huff, and he rolls his body on to John’s, pulling the last drops out of both of them. 

When it’s finished, John’s still holding himself above Sherlock, mouth open. 

“Come here, John.” Sherlock’s voice is only slightly tinged with amusement, and John can’t really blame him. 

He disentangles himself and drops, gracelessly, beside Sherlock’s long body. 

“This wasn’t a gift to you, was it?” 

“I enjoyed it very much, John. Thank you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because it’s a ridiculous question.”

“Git.”

“Idiot.”

The next time John opens his desk drawer, he finds a box of cinnamon hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> Also please note that the author has completely forgiven any and all beloved partners for bringing her petrol-station roses on the fifteenth. If they ever did. She’s forgotten. Furthermore, cinnamon hearts are delicious.
> 
> (Also, the kilt makes only a brief appearance. Sorry. It will return in a starring role soon, probably for St. Patrick’s Day smut in which there will be beer and public sex.)


End file.
